


Where I die will roses grow?

by Girleverafter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gore, Hurt, Other, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girleverafter/pseuds/Girleverafter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set some time after season one. Derek’s gone awol after becoming alpha. The bodies start piling up, but is it Derek doing the dastardly deeds, or has a new creature come to Beacon Hills? Stiles wants to know, but apparently he’s the only one interested in unravelling the bloody mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress, and somewhat of a hardship to write at times. I normally never write long stories, but this one was calling to me. I'll try my best to update regularly.

The only sound is the crunch of leaves and twigs beneath his running feet, the ragged heaves as his lungs fight to drag in enough oxygen, and the frantic beating of his heart as it strains to keep up with the rush of adrenaline flooding his system.  
He’s been running for a while now, blindly crashing through the dark of the forest, and he knows that he can’t go on for that much longer.

He doesn’t waste time looking over his shoulder. He knows that his human eyes won’t be able to see enough to spot his pursuer, so he just grits his teeth at the pain in his legs and the stinging in his lungs. He needs to keep going. His body is begging him to stop, but he can’t. Not yet.

His right sleeve is soaked through by now, the blood cooling and making it stick to his skin. He’s pretty sure that he’s leaving a red trail behind him, and he desperately clutches the injured arm, trying to stop the flow and limit the blood loss. He gasps and stumbles as the pain blossoms and rolls over him in a sickening wave, sending him to the ground, his right knee digging into the dirt.

He’s breathing hard, fighting to calm his heart and getting back control over his body. He clenches his jaw so tightly that his teeth hurt as he pushes away from the ground once more. If he stops now, it’s over. He fights every instinct to look back, and pushes on, focusing on getting back up to speed.  
He has no idea where he is, whether or not he’s closer to the edge of the preserve or about to run over the edge of a cliff.

Just keep going. Just keep going! Please god, just…

The ground beneath him starts sloping downwards, and he tries his best to keep his balance, even as he’s picking up speed, gravity pulling at him. He hears a loud snap behind him, and pure reflex makes him look back. He doesn’t get a chance spot anything. The moment he turns his head, something snags at his foot and his legs disappear underneath him. A muffled scream tumbles from the confinements of his mouth and then all air is pushed out of him as he crashes to the ground.

The hill is too steep for him to just fall and lie still on, and he rolls down, pulling himself into a ball in a desperate attempt to limit any further injuries. He finally slams back first into a tree and then everything goes quiet.

He’s wheezing. Air slowly fills his lungs, but every breath is torture and he winces as he tries to take stock of his surroundings. He can’t hear anything but his racing heart and his laboring breath, but he stays completely still nonetheless, trying his best to take small shallow breaths.  
After what feels like hours, but is probably just minutes, he dares to move, starting by simply flexing his fingers. No broken bones there, so maybe if he just… The pain is instant and nauseating, rushing through his body and making him clutch the left side of his ribs. His fingers skitter over a hard edge of metal sticking out through the fabric of his shirt.   
He tries to take a deep breath, but the motion makes something inside scrape across what he thinks is his ribs, and he whimpers loudly.

With shaking fingers he tries to get hold of the thing that’s sticking out between two of his ribs, but it’s slippery with blood, and he realizes that he might bleed out if he does manage to get whatever it is out.   
He blinks hard, staring into the darkness above him. His view of the night sky is mostly blocked out by trees, but he can see a few stars. No moon though. You’d think that on a full moon night, he’d be able to see where he was going, but this is the height of summer, and the trees are covered in leaves, and on a cloudy night, it’s surprising just how little light reaches the forest floor.

He can’t run anymore. He just can’t. Even minute movements jostle the metal and he tries his best to stay quiet, to lie still and keep his breathing shallow, even when his body is screaming for him to take a deep breath.

He can feel panic creeping in on him and his eyes begin stinging, making him blink furiously to keep back the tears. Crying won’t help him now. He’ll still be alone in the middle of nowhere, hurt and probably about to be mauled. They’ll probably tell his dad that it was a mountain lion. He almost laughs. 

Almost.

Somewhere to his right something is moving, and he forgets everything about mountain lions. His eyes widen in fear, and he inhales sharply, even through the white hot pain flaring through his body. Red eyes glow at him only a few feet from him.

“Derek! Don’t…”

This is it. Stiles is going to die.


	2. No apologies

“Y’know… it’s been awfully quiet lately, hasn’t it?” Stiles swivels the chair around and looks at Scott expectantly, giving him his most desperate smile. His best friend looks up from the magazine he clearly isn’t reading.  
Stiles chooses to ignore the urge to mention that Scott’s choice of reading material is upside down, and continues “…What with all the lack of constant danger, alphas trying to kill everybody, not to mention being stalked by a tall, dark, and aggressive creeper, is what I’m hinting at.”

“I like quiet. Quiet is good.” Scott turns his attention back to the magazine, glances at Stiles, and then quickly turns it the right way up.  
Stiles’ fingers play with the upholstery poking through the rough gashes in the back of the leather chair. It’s a chilly reminder of just how little Scott handled his wolfy powers, back when he had just been turned.  
Stiles studies Scott’s face. There are dark circles under his eyes, a telltale sign that his friend isn’t sleeping too well these days. There’s also the hint of a frown on his forehead, and it’s a look that Stiles is beginning to suspect is becoming permanent.

He really doesn’t need any more frowny werewolves in his life.

 

They haven’t heard from the newly turned Alpha since that night, which is fine by Stiles. The douche did kill his own uncle, taking away Scott’s one chance of a possible cure.  
Sure, Derek had helped them out countless times. Even after they’d gone and gotten him framed for murder twice (and that second time really doesn‘t count, since, hey, they thought he was one dead werewolf shish kebab). But they’d helped him out plenty of times too. Okay, so maybe they had caused him to be in trouble in the first place. But that didn’t change the fact that Derek had, with one powerful strike, obliterated Scott’s hope for a normal life.

Seeing less of Derek is definitely a good thing. Actually, it’s fantastic. With Derek leaving them alone, it seems that everyone who’s usually trying to kill them keeps away. Well, the Argents don’t really keep away as such, but then it is quite hard for them to stay away all together, seeing as Scott is still with Allison. But the whole “We have to hunt them down and shoot them dead - with lots of arrows!” seems to have been put to rest on a shelf.  
Life is almost easy now. Well, as easy as life can be when you’re still in school, have zero ability to focus when it comes to homework, and a best friend who’s a werewolf.

“Quiet is good…” Stiles parrots, eyeing his friend one last time before giving up on the already doomed conversation. He stares at the computer screen, considering checking his tumblr for something interesting. At least his dashboard usually offers great ways to avoid deeper thinking.  
He really doesn’t want to delve too deep into the reasons why the thunder cloud of a frowny werewolf is avoiding them. Derek was the one pushing for Scott to bond with him. But maybe becoming an alpha means that he no longer needs Scott around? As an alpha, he can just make new werewolves. He can surround himself with broody, depressing people, and found an all star pack of angry angst. It can’t possibly be because Derek is feeling guilty.

No way.

No.

Stiles is not thinking of angry, or sad alphas. No, no, nope! He clicks the Star Wars tag, hoping this will distract his mind onto other, easier tracks. Behind him, he hears Scott sigh, and the unmistakable sound of a poor defenseless magazine getting tossed onto the floor. He stops himself from turning and informing Scott about how you treat another man’s beloved treasures. It doesn’t take a lot to push Scott over the edge these days, and Stiles’ furniture will keep a whole of a lot longer if they aren’t used as last minute shields.

Why did Scott even bother coming over? He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to play games. He doesn’t want to do anything, and that frustrates Stiles. This whole “I hang with you, you hang with me, we hang out in awkward silence” thing is only tolerable in small doses, and Scott’s been here, silently angsting on his bed, for nearly two hours now.

Why’s his tumblr dash dead now? Now of all times, when he needs something to distract him? Scott is not going to do anything to lighten the mood. He’s having so much trouble coping with the whole situation.

His best friend is feeling betrayed, Stiles knows this. Even though it wasn’t certain that killing Peter Hale could have turned Scott back, he’s furious that he didn’t even get the chance to at least test the theory. This was, after all, the reason why Scott had agreed to help Derek in the first place.  
Stiles understands. He really does. He’s angry at the furry hermit too. But sometimes, late at night, when his brain once again refuses to let things lie, and he really thinks about it, he’s also relieved.

If Derek had kept his promise, and stood back and let Scott kill Peter. What if that hadn’t been a cure? Then Scott would be the Alpha now, and Stiles shudders at the thought. Scott has enough problems controlling his inner wolf as it is, and becoming an Alpha would probably turn him into some uncontrollable, raging monster. Something, Stiles suspects, even Derek would have trouble taking down.  
At least Derek was born a werewolf. He might not have been destined to be the Alpha, but he has so much more control (yeah right, except when he was slamming completely innocent teenagers against walls) and at least he has an idea of what to expect.

At least Stiles hopes he does.

Seeing as they haven’t seen anything to the supreme champion of frowny faces since that night, Stiles really, when he thinks about it, doesn’t have a clue whether Derek is mastering his newfound powers, or if they’re ripping him apart.

Stiles pushes that thought away with force, silently cursing Scott for his lack of distracting conversation and trying to come up with something to google that’s got nothing to do with werewolves. But his brain is a treacherous bastard and the thoughts creep back in.

Where is Derek? Stiles would’ve thought that the creeper would’ve tried to establish his role as the ultimate end boss by now, probably crawling through Stiles’ window ages ago, throwing him around for good measure, before demanding something completely unrealistic. But there’s been nothing, just Stiles, Allison, and Scott and his man pain.

Stiles wonders if Derek’s left town now. It’s not like much is keeping him here anymore, only bad memories really.

Beacon Hills is where the majority of Derek’s family perished in their burning house. A massacre planned and executed by Kate Argent, a woman whom Stiles suspects Derek knew better than what he leads on. Beacon Hills is where Derek’s sister had been ripped to pieces by their uncle, a sick man who’d gone on a murder spree to avenge the death of his family. Stiles still has trouble understanding how someone could lose themselves so much that they’d justify killing one of the last remnants of their family, just to get power.

When Stiles’ mother died, it almost killed his father, and for Stiles it took a long, long time before he didn’t feel like he was dying slowly, wishing he would just stop breathing, hating his heart for refusing to stop beating as he screamed into his pillow at night.

That one death alone could leave such crippling pain in its wake was unbearable, but Derek lost everyone in such a short span of time, and so much loss had to leave nothing but devastation in its wake. So when Stiles really thinks about it, he understands why Derek would jump the chance to get just a fraction of that back. He completely gets why Derek would be desperate to believe his uncle’s word when Peter told him that he’d never meant to kill Laura, even in the face of all the evidence proving the opposite.

In the end Derek had killed Peter, ripping the taunting and venomous words directly from his throat. Beacon Hills holds nothing but death and sadness, Stiles thinks, and he actually hopes that Derek has left.

“Are you okay?” Scott’s voice cuts through his thoughts and Stiles blinks rapidly as he realizes he’s still staring at Google’s search bar.

“What?” he looks over his shoulder to Scott, who’s studying him with a deeper frown than usual.

“It’s just… your heart rate picked up, but…” At that Scott leans to one side, glancing at the computer screen. “… you’re not actually looking at anything. What’s up?”

Of course this is the moment that Scott has to remember to be the caring friend instead on focusing on his own thoughts. Stiles could have done with Scott’s usual oblivious self right now. He sighs, taking advantage of the few seconds to come up with a plausible lie.

“I just… I’m just worried that Mr. Creeper will suddenly vault through the window, and I just really hope he’s left town” See that was almost entirely true. He hopes Scott buys it, and from the way that his frown lets up a little, Stiles is pretty sure he’s in the clear.

******

Stiles is almost falling asleep the following morning, his head dangerously close to dropping into his bowl of cereal. Scott didn’t leave until 2 in the morning, after Stiles’ fourth attempt at letting him know how tired he was, and how he really had to get up early.  
When Scott finally left, Stiles’ brain had been its usual fantastic self, not only bombarding him with ideas on how to make Scott feel better, but more importantly; every possible scenario that could explain why Derek had not showed up yet, and Stiles realized that he really wanted to find out what had happened to Derek.

“Son, I’d love to stay for a morning chat, but I’m being called in for a search party.” The sheriff rushes past Stiles, already in his uniform and grabbing his coat. Stiles stiffens, and looks up from his spoon.

“Who’s missing?” He’s trying for casual, but he knows he doesn’t quite make it. His throat is suddenly dry, and he swallows hard, not really sure why he’s feeling worried. His dad throws a look over his shoulder as he opens the door.

“No one you know, Stiles. Don’t worry about it. It’s just some hiker who probably turned left when he should’ve turned right. See you tonight.” He steps outside into the morning air and closes the door behind him, not seeing how Stiles is visibly relaxing, his shoulders slumping as he sighs with relief.

No one he knows. That’s something, at least. And his dad is probably right. They’ll find the hiker, and then everything will be back to normal.  
But what if it isn’t just a case of strangers getting lost? Stiles has spent the past six months in a more or less constant state of vigilance, and that leaves its mark on a mind, even if Stiles tries his damn best to ignore that little voice that’s always telling him to fear the worst. Those kinds of thoughts will leave you sleepless, and that, in turn, will make the thoughts and images even worse, resulting in making it even harder to fall asleep. It’s a fucked up circle, and it’s taken Stiles a lot of time and willpower to overcome it.

He really hopes that his dad is right.

******

As it turns out, his dad is wrong.

The front of the newspaper the following morning sports the headline: “New animal attack shocks the city!” and it continues to describe the grizzly death of one poor hiker. The police haven’t been able to identify the deceased yet, but seeing as there was not much left, and they only found the body the previous day, it’s not surprising.

Stiles snorts loudly as he reads the journalist’s attempt at guessing the animal. He actually giggles as his eyes skit across the words “mountain lion”. That never gets old, does it?

******

“So did you hear about the body?” Stiles bumps shoulders with Scott as he joins him on one of the benches near the field. Scott is fiddling with his lacrosse stick, but he huffs out a mirthless laugh.

“Yeah! Mountain lion again, huh?” He pulls at the laces, as if to see whether or not they’re tight enough.

“Oh my god, I know! It’s like trying to explain every illness on House with Lupus!” Stiles rolls his eyes. “I don’t know man, I’m just a tiny bit worried. Do you think it could be another werewolf?” Scott shrugs but doesn’t look at him. He’s still awfully interested in his lacrosse stick.

“Don’t know. It’s not like I can smell out anything new. But then, I dunno, I mean, I might be able to, if I went to the crime scene. But I doubt that your dad will let us get anywhere near enough.” He stops fiddling with the laces and runs a hand through the dark curls of his hair. It’s getting a bit long Stiles notes, but he doesn’t mention it.

“Do you think it could be Derek?” Scott actually flinches, as if the mere mentioning of Derek’s name hurts. Stiles feels a bit guilty at that, but damn it this is important!

“Scott. Man, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but…” He doesn’t get to finish the sentence as Scott attempts to glare him to death.

“You know what Stiles? You’re right. I don’t want to talk about it. Any of it! I don’t care what Derek’s doing, or where he is! If this is his doing, then hey, Allison’s dad will hunt him down. I don’t need to do anything at all, alright? So just… Just leave it, okay?” Scott’s breathing hard, and there’s a golden edge to his eyes warning Stiles from pushing this any further. 

Stiles has never been good at taking hints.

“Scott! I really don’t wanna pull the Uncle Ben speech, but I will if I have to, man! With great power com-” And then Scott punches him, hard. The punch knocks the air out of Stiles and he doubles forward, clutching his stomach and fighting the sudden nausea that’s threatening to make him vomit. He staggers forward and leans against the nearest bench, blinking back the tears and focusing on making his lungs work again.

Scott isn’t saying anything. Stiles would’ve at least thought that he’d apologize. Scott always apologizes. But not this time. In fact, Scott isn’t there anymore. Stiles looks up to see his best friend’s back as he stomps away.

He didn’t even apologize.

******

The light in the bathroom makes his pale skin look even whiter than usual, casting harsh shadows where bones push underneath the skin. He’s complained about the damn light bulb to his dad plenty of times, but right now he just wants to unscrew the damn thing and go buy a new one himself. Preferably one with a soft warm light, Or even a dimmer one, for those days when Stiles can’t stand looking at himself.  
His shirt is lying discarded on the floor in his room, and he’s standing in front of the mirror, studying himself. The light makes him look skinnier than he is. Stiles isn’t really skinny at all, his muscles are defined from hours and hours of lacrosse practice. But he’s sinewy and has a slender build compared to the rest of the team. Next to Scott and Jackson it’s no wonder people mistake him for being weak. Compared to Derek, he looks like he’s seconds from snapping in half like a dry twig. He snorts and looks down.  
The stark brightness of the light makes the new bruise stand out. A mix of red and purple spreads across the skin to the left of his belly button, underneath his ribs. He slowly brushes his right hand over it, slim fingers dancing across the oversensitive area. A hiss escapes him. He can’t believe Scott actually hit him. Sure, he’d pushed him around often enough, sometimes in mirth, once in a while in anger, but actually lashing out and inflicting psychical pain? Never, not even when wolfed out.  
Stiles looks himself in the eyes. He looks awfully tired with dark circles around his eyes, and the skin stretched over his cheekbones looks waxy in the slightly green tinted light. He thinks he looks like he’s, what, given up, maybe. His lips press together in a thin line, and, and…

He slams the bathroom door, hitting the light switch as he heads to his room. Closing the door behind him, he thanks himself for being late this morning and not getting around to opening up the blinds, not letting daylight in. His room is cool and shadowy, the grey walls making it even darker.   
The bed is looking warm and comforting, and he lets himself fall into it, bouncing slightly before finally settling in. The sheets are cool against his cheek, and he lets out a loud sigh, feeling tension leaving his body. 

******

It’s funny how little you suddenly have to do during summer break when your supposedly best friend is avoiding you. Funny how you suddenly realize how lonely you are when that one friend is ignoring you. Except it’s not funny at all. It’s making him more restless than usual, and he’s desperate to find something to entertain himself with.

His idea of entertainment isn’t bits and pieces of people showing up everywhere, but apparently the world doesn’t give a shit and expects him to be happy with what it gives him.  
He’s staring at another ridiculous attempt at journalism, and refuses to even read the words ”mountain lion” again. Why can’t they get into their tiny minds that dangerous dumb animals don’t just waltz into town to pull people apart and then swank out of town without anyone noticing? Okay, wild, dangerous animals don’t. Werewolves aren’t wild animals.

They are dumb, though.

The sheriff is looking tired. It’s been two weeks since the first body turned up in the forest, and they still haven’t gotten any significant clues. The ”public” is putting a lot of pressure on the city’s law enforcement, according to the article, and Stiles hates that he can’t help his dad.  
He has so many secrets to keep, and none of them are his to tell. He knows he could lift so much of the weight off of his dad’s shoulders if he just told him what he knows. His father isn’t dumb, hell, he’s his hero, and Stiles knows that his dad could solve these crimes so much better if he had all the facts. But Stiles can’t tell him any of it. He can’t risk it; risk the safety of Scott and Allison… of Derek.

Derek.

Derek must know what’s going on. Either that or he’s the cause of it all. Stiles really hopes that this isn’t happening because Derek’s somehow gone feral. But they still haven’t heard anything. Scratch that, Stiles hasn’t heard anything from Derek. He hasn’t got a clue whether Scott has, because Scott still isn’t talking to him. Really, Stiles should be the offended one. He’s the one who was punched just for talking. Stiles is feeling damn offended. Actually he’s pissed off now, so it’s as much him not talking to Scott as it is the other way around. 

Really great. Awesome. 

It’s hard playing detective all by himself, but he’s going to try and solve this. Stiles wants to help his dad. He wants to stop the rising number of horrible deaths (really, Beacon Hills is becoming a terrible place to raise your kids) and, try as he might, he can’t deny that he’s itching to find out what’s going on with the new alpha. Scott can just go fuck himself. Stiles doesn’t need him and his wolfy powers. Stiles has always been the master mind of this friendship, using Scott to bounce ideas off of.   
Scott isn’t stupid. Okay, he’s stupid right now, but, normally Scott isn’t stupid. He’s just not good at sneaky thinking. Scott is honest, always wants to believe in people, and sometimes he’s a little naïve. With a cop for a father you quickly learn to lie and conceal. Oh, his dad thinks he’s a horrible liar, but that’s only when the lie isn’t vital.   
Stiles knows how to lie about the important things. He knows how to pretend he’s fine, when all he want to do is fall apart, and he knows how to play cocky and brave when all he wants, is to give in to the fear and run for his life. He’s spent a lot of his life coming up with ways to get out of the trouble he’s put himself in, and the last months has taught him, for better or for worse, how get out alive, with all his limbs intact.

And now he’s about to go looking for a potential killer in the woods. Again. And this is his life?


	3. Join the club

”Hey Lydia. It’s me… again” Stiles might have chosen to go on the big Let’s-find-Derek-and-sort-this-shit-out-mission, but he’s been visiting Lydia at the hospital every single day of his spring break, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to change that for anyone.  
He grabs the green plastic chair in the corner, pulling it with him and taking a seat right up against the right side of the bed.

”Really, why do they keep putting this stupid thing back there? Nobody puts visitors in corners. You’d think they’d gotten the memo by now, huh? Yeah ok, you don’t really care. So. How are you doing today? You look better. Healthier” She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t react in any way, her eyes closed and her face turned a fraction towards him.

It always feels awkward talking to her like this. Like he’s expecting her to suddenly sit up and answer. He keeps at it though. He really needs to lay off watching late night reruns of Grey’s Anatomy. That shit is turning him into a hopeless romantic. No. Scratch that, he already was, and has been for years. The champion of unrequited love. The seeker of worth in everyone else’s eyes. 

He laughs, and it comes out sounding a little bitter. He looks at the strawberry blonde hair fanning out and away from Lydia’s peaceful face, he slowly lifts a hand to move away a few stray hairs, almost reverently, careful not to touch her skin. Her face is flawless, even without the make-up, and she looks so, so young. All her usual sass and steel cool façade washed away with the concealer, mascara and pink lip gloss, leaving her looking fragile and so very breakable.

Fucking Peter Hale! 

If he could throw the damn Molotov again, he would! Had he had the chance, he’d chopped the bastard’s head off himself. He leans in a bit closer, as if to let Lydia in on a secret and casts a quick glance over his shoulder, to make sure no one is about to walk through the door, before speaking softly.

”Look, it’s not like you ever listen to me anyways, but Lydia… Please. Derek’s uncle is gone. The monster is dead, and there’s no need for you to hide any more. You- You don’t have to be afraid. So, just wake up. Ok?” No stirring, no sudden intake of breath. She’s still like a doll. He sighs loudly, exhaling through his nostrils and running a hand over his short hair. He really need to find another show to watch on those countless sleepless nights.

”So. There’s murder and mayhem in town, again. Yeah, we’re turning into Sunnydale. And Scott is- he’s going through a rough patch, so I’m all by my lonesome. And you know me, I’m the son of the Sheriff, so I can’t just stand by and do nothing, right? Justice is in my bones!” he smiles at her, before continuing ”I know! I should totally get a costume. I actually tried talking Scott into getting one, but he doesn’t get the true brilliance of that idea. Besides, I can’t sew, and I refuse to just throw on a wrestling suit and a pair of underwear on top. Stiles roll with style, or not at all. As you can guess, I’m not rolling anywhere right now. But, tomorrow will be time for lots of top quality sleuthing, and tonight, tonight there’s a party at Kelly’s.” He sits up suddenly, shaking his head ”No no! It obviously won’t be as cool, when you’re not gracing us with you presence, but I kind of already said I’d go. Of course, that was before Scott punched me, but I’ll try and see if I can’t talk it over with him, if he’s there. Not to mention, if I can pry him away from Allison for a second or two.”

”Aw, did you guys break up?” Stiles does not jump into the air, in any way. He does, however, send a dirty look over his shoulder, at Jackson. The dirty look doesn’t last long. Not after he sees the expression on the teen’s face. Clearly Jackson is trying for his usual cool, douche-tastic routine, but his eyes betray him. They’re glassy and a bit red, like he’s either been crying, or that he’s not sleeping very well.

”Join the club” Stiles mumbles, but leaves the chair without further complaint.

”What did you say?” There’s no venom in Jackson’s voice, and he doesn’t spare Stiles a single glance, as he walks past, his shoulder brushing Stiles’ and takes the seat. He grasps Lydia’s hand and squeezes it for a second.

”Hey…” he says softly, studying her closely, and Stiles wonders if he has the same silly hopes for the girl to awaken because of his voice.

Probably.

Stiles feels like he’s somehow intruding on something private, so he turns away from the couple and heads for the door, when Jackson half turns towards him.

”Stilinski. I don’t know what’s going on with Derek Hale, but he’s clearly avoiding me. If you see him- When you see him. Tell him it’s not working, and I need to know why!” The teen turns back to Lydia, clearly intend on not explaining further. No need to explain though, Stiles knows exactly what Jackson is talking about.

Great! Making Jackson into a werewolf is, probably, the worst decision in the history of bad decisions. Ever! At least it seems it didn’t work.


	4. I like your shirt

As Stiles is trying to decide between his bull’s eye shirt and his Godzilla VS. Mothra shirt, the Sheriff pops his head through the doorway, raising his eyebrows at his son wearing a huge fluffy towel wrapped around his head.

“Stiles. You don’t actually have enough hair to warrant a towel around your head. You heading out tonight?” he says, pushing the door open and leaning against the doorframe. 

“I will have you know, that this is for warmth only, one cannot be too careful when it comes to protection against summer colds. And yes, there’s a party at Kelly’s tonight.” He settles for the bull’s eye shirt and throws the other back into the closet, ignoring the fact that he should’ve folded it. He can do that later. He probably won’t, though.

“Okay…” Dad nods. “I’m not going to pretend that this party will be alcohol free, so just remember; don’t mix drinks, don’t drink from anything you’ve left unattended. No drinking and-”

“No drinking and driving. Gotcha.” Stiles finishes for him, giving him a lopsided grin. He pulls on the shirt, but it gets caught on the towel he forgot to remove from around his head, and he struggles for a few seconds, before pulling off the shirt again, throwing the towel on the floor, and then pulling the shirt back on.

“Good to see that you haven’t forgotten all the rules just yet,” the Sheriff says, chuckling a little at his son’s flailing.

“Well, it’s not like you ever give me the chance to forget them. Not that I want to forget them. Very important rules them, yep. Very important.” He still has a second towel wrapped around his hips, and he shuffles to the dresser to grab underwear and a pair of jeans. He turns, looking over his shoulder.

“Was there something else, you wanted?” His dad just scratches his neck, the smile not quite reaching his eyes.

“Just, we still haven’t found whatever is out there, so I’m going to drive you to this party, and you call me when you need me to pick you up. No arguing. You call me, okay?” Stiles simply nods, and turns back to the dresser.

“Good.” his dad says, before leaving the room.

******

“OH MY GOD! That shirt is SO cute! Y’know, it’s- that’s my fav’rit shirt. Really!” Sheila from Chem is leaning way too far into his personal space, her breath smelling strongly of beer. It’s not a bad smell per say, but Stiles isn’t really too fond of having her this close. Sheila’s nice, and kind of cute too, her blue eyes bright and sparkling as she smiles at him. She’s also extremely drunk, her lip-gloss smeared, and Stiles is so very not interested.

“Thanks,” he says, trying his best to sound nice, but not too nice. It clearly isn’t working, because Sheila is throwing both her arms around his neck, and leaning her whole body against his, giggling loudly. The party is at its peak, music loud and thumping to drown out the laughter and talking, only resulting in everybody shouting at each other. He looks around, trying to catch a glimpse of Allison or Scott, and catches Scott looking across the room at him, a worried frown on his face.

“Scott! Sorry Sheila, I hav- I gotta go, talk to my friend… yeah.” He’s gesturing emphatically, before he grabs hold of her wrists and pries her off of him, even as she’s rubbing her whole body against him. He so does not need this right now. Sheila mumbles something at him, but Stile’s not really paying attention, his focus on getting to Scott, before the werewolf makes a run for it.

He doesn’t make it in time. When Stiles gets to the other end of the room, Allison is standing there with the most awkward expression. She gives him an apologizing smile, and shakes her head, her dark curls dancing.

“Sorry Stiles, I don’t think he wants to talk right now.” She takes a sip of the orange liquid in the plastic cup in her hands, before offering him another smile.

“Yeah, I kind of figured. Seeing as he’s not… y’know, here.” Stiles sighs loudly, looking over his shoulder, to make sure Sheila isn’t making another pass at him.

“Can you just, y’know, tell him I’m sorry? I don’t even know why I should be, since he’s the one who punched me. But yeah, tell him that. I know he’s not the biggest fan of Derek Hale and all… aaaaaand neither are you, sorry.” He winces as Allison’s eyes get all big and sad, and oh god, did he manage to make her cry within sixty seconds? Great job, Stilinski, just great!

“No, no it’s ok, Stiles. I really shouldn’t be partying already, but Scott… Y’know him.” She smiles again, wiping the corner of her eye in a swift movement, followed by checking her fingers. Probably looking for smeared makeup.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him. And to be honest, I think he’s really just staying away because he’s embarrassed about hitting you.” There’s a sudden bark of outrage close by, but Stiles can’t see if Scott is eavesdropping somewhere. For what seems like the millionth time tonight, Stiles lets out a sigh.

“Yeah? I hope you’re right. I mean, Scott never stays angry this long… And it’s starting to freak me out a little. I’m starting to fear I’ve done something irreversible, y’know?” Someone giggles loudly behind him as slender hands snake underneath his arms from behind, and pulls him into a tight hug. The hands grabs at his shirt, narrowly avoiding scratching his left nipple.

“I really, really like this shirt. I like it, it’s soft! You’re soft too. I like you,” Sheila slurs, her body flush against his back. She’s trying to blow his ear teasingly, but Stiles feels the unmistakable sensation of spit hitting skin, and he recoils with a disgusted sound, turning an annoyed look at Sheila.

“I’m gonna go find Scott.” Allison mumbles before she’s slipping away into the crowded kitchen.

Stiles is still trying to come up with a polite, but firm way of rejecting the drunk girl around his neck, when she lifts her hands to his face, her fingers sticky with what he assumes must be spilled drink, and plants a sloppy wet kiss on his lips.

“Hmm?!” is the only sound that escapes him, before he manages to push her off him and away.

“No. Sheila, just no. God! You’re a sweet girl, but this is me saying ‘No’. I’m really not interested.” So much for finding a nice way of turning her down. He keeps one arm stretched out in front of him, just in case she wants to try a third time. Sheila’s face is getting all scrunched up, and her bottom lip has started to quiver, and, god, is this some sort of sick record, making two girls cry within mere minutes? Wonderful night. Really fucking great!

He scans the room for someone to take over, because Sheila is just standing there, hiccupping and crying into her drink that just suddenly materialized out of nowhere. Did she just grab it while his back was turned? Nobody seems to want to take her off his hands, though. A few girls are giving him the stink eye, and he silently tries to, with helpful gestures, explain that the crying is not his fault. The girls just seem to snort, and turn their backs on him.

Thanks for nothing, then. 

Stiles tries to spot Kelly somewhere. She is, after all, Sheila’s BFF, at least to his knowledge. But he doesn’t see her. Who he does see, surprisingly makes his skin crawl.  
At the other end of the room, in a darker corner, stands a guy. He is tall, with black hair, and black clothes. A cue card sporting the word ‘Goth’ pops up in Stiles’ brain, but even with all the black and the shaded eyes, he doesn’t really strike as the type. Stiles doesn’t recognize the guy, but then he doesn’t recognize half of the party goers. No, what creeps him out is the way that the guy doesn’t really seem to be all there. He’s too still, his lurking on par with a certain Alpha’s creeper skills. After a few more quick glances in Mr. Black’s direction, Stiles realizes it’s because the guy’s hair is all dark. There’s no light reflecting in it, like it sucks everything in, swallowing the light. That, that just looks so very wrong; like the guy is a cardboard cutout and not a real person.  
It must be a trick of the light, and Stiles can’t look at the guy anymore without giving himself away, and besides, Sheila is sobbing even louder, almost as if she’s trying to catch Stiles’ attention.

”Okay, Sheila, I think party time is over for you. Let’s just get you home now, okay?” He gives her a sort of halfhearted pat on the shoulder, and gently turns her away from him, pushing her towards the hallway. While she’s fumbling with her phone, calling for a ride, Stiles quickly slips back into the living room where most of the party is going on, grabbing his discarded hoodie.   
After making sure Sheila has all her things, and making a call to his dad, Stiles guides her out the front door. Kelly still hasn’t made an appearance, and even though Stiles just wants to go home, now that the evening has been less than fruitful, he still feels responsible for Sheila and her drunken crush. 

”You really dun need…” Sheila is still slurring and hiccupping. She coughs and makes a sort of ’oumph’ sound, covering her mouth quickly. Stiles quickly takes one giant step back, wanting to avoid any potential projectile vomiting. That would just make this night an instant hit. Sheila swallows, with some difficulty, and then puts on a fake smile.

”No, man. I gotta make sure you get home safe.” At that she just shakes her head, a little unsteady on her feet, and then shakes the hand holding the phone at him.

”Iz’alright, Stiles. Called m’dad. He’ll be ’ere in two minutes. Seriously,” she adds, making shooing motions at him.

”If you’re sure?” She nods emphatically, and Stiles can recognize someone who’s suddenly sobering up quickly in the evening air. Someone who’s suddenly realizing that she might have done some embarrassing things.

”Go. I’ll… I’ll be fine.” She plops down on the curb, her bag discarded beside her, and her slender arms hugging her knees.

”Ok then…” He mutters, heading back inside.

Maybe he’ll try to talk with Scott one more time.


End file.
